What's In A Name?
by geekymoviemom
Summary: Desolate after losing the woman that he thought he loved, Tony Stark was dangerously close to hitting rock bottom. Then he received a life-altering phone call. Prequel to Pieces of Echoes


_**This story is a prequel to my multi-chapter story Pieces of Echoes. I hope you enjoy it!**_

* * *

"Hey, Tones, wake up," Rhodey said as he dug his sharp elbow into Tony's arm. "You're home."

With seemingly gargantuan effort, Tony peeled open his eyelids, blearily noticing that no, he wasn't on a never-ending rollercoaster ride like his mind had been telling him for the last hour or so, he was in fact in the front passenger seat of Rhodey's car.

And there was even a barf bag sitting on his lap, just in case.

Or, more likely, due to the last time Rhodey had had to retrieve Tony from one of his more… extravagant outings, the time he'd had to ask Rhodey to pull off the interstate so he could lurch half the Scotch in New York City all over the side of the road.

"Psha," Tony scoffed, nearly tripping over his tongue as he scowled at the stately home, Howard's beloved New York Mansion. "This isn't my home. This was _his_ home, and he put me out of it."

Rhodey gave a sigh as he opened his door. "Yeah, well, your bed's still here at least, so how 'bout we get you in it before you collapse, yeah?"

"Why bother?" Tony grumbled, even as Rhodey opened his door and reached for him. Tony immediately slapped his hand away, gritting his teeth as he attempted to stand on his own.

"Damnit, Tones," Rhodey grumbled, managing to catch Tony just before he would've pitched head first onto the driveway. "See, this is why you gotta quit doing shit like this. One of these days you're gonna wind up bashing your head in, and then—"

"That'd probably be for the best," Tony said, his words slurring as Rhodey dragged him up the stairs and into the house. He had given Rhodey a key to the house a long time ago, following their first year at MIT, in fact, and it had saved his ass on many an occasion ever since then.

"Doubt too many people would miss me," he grunted, wincing as Rhodey set him down on the couch to remove his shoes. He sat back when he was done, a deep frown line between his dark eyebrows as he regarded Tony.

"What're you looking at?" Tony huffed. He tipped his head back, instantly regretting it when his stomach gave a violent lurch. "Goddamnit, I hate when that happens."

Rhodey shot him a scowl as he sat back on his heels. "When what happens, Tony?" he snapped. "When you drink so much that you can't even remember your own name? When you trash another nightclub so badly that they put you on their 'no-admittance' list and I have to come and drag your sorry ass back home? Was that what you were referring to? I mean, you were in _Jersey_ tonight, Tones, now that should tell ya something!"

Tony's head was throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart, and he clapped his hands over his ears, willing the room to stop spinning.

"Huh, Tony?" Rhodey said, rapping his knuckles on Tony's forehead. "I'm still waiting for an answer here."

"An answer for what?" barked Tony, so forcefully that he gagged. He should've had Rhodey run through a drive-thru on the way home, he highly doubted there was anything greasy enough in the house to settle his stomach. "You know, I really could use a cheeseburger or three right about now, do you think you could—?"

"No!" yelled Rhodey, inciting yet another wave of nausea and forcing Tony to squeeze his eyes closed. "Goddamnit, Tony, I need you to listen to me! What the hell are you trying to prove with all this?"

It took several seconds and a monumental effort on Tony's part to open one eye. "What'd'ya mean?"

"I mean, _this!_" Rhodey said, holding up his hands. "You, pushing everyone who loves you away and trying to out-drink everyone in New York all at the same time every other night! Oh, and don't forget _Jersey!_"

Both of Tony's eyes flew open, and he glared hard at his so-called best friend, an action that took a lot more energy to accomplish than it should have.

"Everyone who _loves_ me?" he rasped. "And who the hell is that, Rhodey? My mom's dead, in case you hadn't noticed, and Regina's fucking _gone_, remember? Oh, and she loved me so damn much she didn't even feel it was necessary to tell me her real goddamn name and that our entire relationship was just a fucking setup!"

Hurt flashed across Rhodey's face, obvious enough even to Tony in his drunken-stupor state.

"Regina, or Mary, or whoever-the-hell she is—_was_, has been gone for over six months now, Tony," Rhodey said quietly. "So it's time for you to start moving on."

Tony rolled his eyes, which unfortunately only increased the roiling in his stomach.

"Yeah, sure."

"Oh, c'mon Tony! You think that girl was the only person who's ever cared about you?" Rhodey asked. "You still have a lot of people who care about you! What about Obadiah, huh? And Aunt Peggy?" He paused then, drawing in a deep breath.

"What about me?"

Tony couldn't answer at first, as his alcohol-sodden brain didn't seem to want to work properly. It took him several heartbeats before he was able to think of an answer that seemed appropriate.

"Ah, don't worry, Rhodey," he said, in all seriousness. "If I give ya enough time, you'll end up bailing on me too."

_Everyone always does._

Rhodey pursed his lips, giving Tony a stiff nod. "I see. Well, you know what, I think I'm gonna take you up on that offer for tonight 'cause… I think I've reached the point where I just can't bring myself to try anymore." He got to his feet, eyeing Tony with such aloofness that Tony's blood ran cold. "You keep up with this dumbass behaviour and you're gonna end up killing yourself, and I can't be a part of that, Tony. I just can't. You need something that I can't give you."

"Hmph. And what's that?"

"A reason to live," Rhodey said. "And I don't mean just survive, 'cause that's all you're doing right now, and just barely, I might add. I mean, a reason to actually _live._"

And with that he trekked into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of water and three aspirins and shoving them into Tony's hands. Then he stepped back, scowling deeply.

"When you feel like acting like a normal human being again, you let me know," he said. "Otherwise, don't bother calling me. I've had enough of trying to save you from yourself to last me for a long time."

Rhodey's words stung, even more than the backhands Howard used to lay across Tony's cheekbones when he was a kid, but there was no way Tony was going to let him see it so he just stared straight ahead, unmoving as Rhodey clicked his tongue and left the room, slamming the front door with enough force to knock a painting crooked on the wall.

_Why should you want to save me from myself,_ Tony thought miserably. _I don't even wanna be saved from myself._

Tony's phone rang then, from somewhere down in the depths of his pants pockets. He let out a loud groan, twisting on the couch such that he nearly rolled off of it before he was able to retrieve the blaring phone.

"Huh?" he grunted.

"Tony?" came the low, gruff voice of Obadiah Stane, sounding even lower and more guff than usual. Obie never stayed up past midnight unless he was at some special event; he always joked that he needed his beauty sleep, so for him to be calling Tony after two in the morning on a weeknight could only mean—

_Oh, shit._

"C'mon, Tony, I know you're there. You know you can't hide from me."

"Why the hell aren't you sleeping, Obie?" Tony asked, cringing as another wave of nausea hit him like a sledgehammer. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Tony," said Obie. "Because I just got off the phone with a police chief in goddamn Jersey of all places, saying that you managed to trash another club!"

Tony was quiet for several heartbeats, kneading his throbbing temple.

"Yeah, so?"

"Yeah, so?" Obie exclaimed. "Is that all you have to say for yourself? Tony, the cop said that the club was so trashed that they won't be able to reopen for at least a week! The owners are gonna sue you for damages, and all you can say is 'yeah, so'?"

"Yeah, so?" said Tony, rolling his eyes. "Just pay 'em off, isn't that what you're good at?"

"No, what I'm good at is taking care of the money end of _your_ company, the company that your _father_ built and that _you_ are supposedly running, and I don't think anything in that job description includes bailing you outta whatever load of shit you've managed to find yourself in!"

"Hmph. Never stopped you before," grumbled Tony. "In fact—"

"Jesus Christ, Tony, you need to grow the hell up!" Obie yelled, so loudly that Tony had to jerk the phone away. "I don't think your father would've appreciated half the profits of Stark Industries being used to bail you outta trouble all the damn time, do you?"

"Like Dad would've cared," Tony muttered under his breath.

"What was that? I didn't quite catch that."

"I _said_, Howard wouldn't've given a damn about it because he didn't give a damn about me!" Tony yelled. "He never fucking did, and neither does anyone else!"

"Oh, give me a break!" Obie said, and Tony could just picture the eye roll in his words. "Now you're just making excuses for acting like an overgrown child!"

Now it was Tony's turn to roll his eyes, which he realised about three seconds too late was _not_ such a great idea in his drunken state. "Yeah, well, if you say so."

"Tony—!"

"Look, just pay off the damn club owner and call it a day, yeah?" Tony snapped. "It's not like we've never done that before."

"No, it's not like _I've _never done that before," said Obie. "You hear me? It's not you, Tony! _I'm _the one in charge of the finances for the company, and _I'm _telling you that it doesn't look good on the bottom line if we keep having to cut into the profits to rebuild nightclubs! Not to mention all the fires with the press that I'm gonna have to put out! Do you even have a clue how much negative press costs nowadays? Do ya?"

Tony rolled his eyes again, gripping the back of the couch to keep himself upright, his shoulders sagging when he realised that he'd already lost two of his three aspirins somewhere inside the cushions.

"Is that a rhetorical question, or are you actually expecting an answer?"

Obie sighed into the phone. "Look. You know I'll take care of everything like I always do, but you gotta pull yourself out of this slump that you're in, okay? 'Cause the whole drunk and depressed thing just isn't a good look on you, Tony, and frankly I'm not the only one who's getting tired of it. So, here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna drag yourself into that bedroom of yours and you're gonna take a cold shower. Then you're gonna get some sleep, and tomorrow morning you're gonna show up at the office—and on time would be nice for a change—and you're gonna start working on building the prototype for that new rifle that you presented a few weeks ago. Remember that? The new semi-automatic that got the Board all excited?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, maybe once I show you the specs in the morning it'll help jog your memory," Obie stated. "Now, go. And don't be late tomorrow or I'll get even crabbier than I already am, making me miss out on my sleep."

"Yeah, whatever. See ya," Tony muttered. He pressed the END button on the phone before Obie could protest, tossing it towards the coffee table in front of him and groaning when it skidded completely off the edge and onto the floor.

Popping the lone remaining aspirin into his mouth, Tony grimaced as he swallowed it dry, swearing as he attempted to get to his feet only to have his stomach violently flip in protest. He tipped backwards, bouncing off the edge of the cushion and landing rather hard on his ass.

And if _that_ wasn't just the perfect metaphor for how his life had been going lately, he didn't know what was.

_Screw 'em_, he thought miserably as he leaned against the couch. _Screw 'em all. I don't need anyone, I've always been just fine on my own._

Well, at least Tony's version of fine, whatever that was.

Besides. He had learned the hard way that letting people in only led to the inevitable heartbreak, and for someone like Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, it was probably for the best if he never did it again.

He shifted uncomfortably on the floor, poking at his left leg that had fallen asleep. He realised that he should probably make an attempt to get to his bedroom but he had absolutely no motivation or desire to move at the moment, and also had no inclination that his bedroom would be spinning any less fast than the room he was currently in.

"May as well just sleep it off here," he mumbled, tipping onto his side. He groped blindly for one of the throw pillows on the couch, finally grabbing one of the cushions instead and shoving it under his head. The thought of how angry Obie would be when he failed to show up at the appointed time in the morning briefly crossed Tony's mind, then flitted away just as fast.

Obie would just have to get over it. And if he knew what was good for him—and he did—then he would.

* * *

At first Tony thought he was still dreaming, that the shrill ring of his phone was just another discorded note in the cacophony of pain shooting throughout his head like a pinball. He lifted his head from the cushion, wrinkling his nose at the terrible taste in his mouth just as the phone stopped ringing.

"Doesn't matter anyway," he mumbled as he dropped back down. It was still dark outside—either that or he was going blind, which was a distinct possibility since he'd been drinking Scotch in freaking _Jersey_ of all places—so likely not Obie, and he didn't think Rhodey would be calling either. He'd been pretty pissed off when he left, so…

He had just about fallen back asleep when the phone rang again. Tony groaned, clapping his hand over his forehead as he reached under the coffee table to retrieve it, slamming it against his ear.

"Huh?"

There was a pause as someone cleared their throat. "Is this Mr Tony Stark?" asked an unfamiliar male voice.

Tony blinked. "Uhh, yeah. Or, at least I think so. Who the hell is this?"

The man cleared his throat again. "Mr Stark, my name is Doctor David Goldman, and I'm a neonatologist at Mount Sinai hospital here in the city. Are you familiar with a woman named Regina Williams?"

Even after all this time, hearing Regina's name spoken out loud hit Tony like a stab to the heart and he flinched, almost dropping the phone.

"Mr Stark? Sir, are you there?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Are you familiar with Ms Williams, sir?"

Tony huffed, scrubbing at his eyes with his palm. He felt like he was in the Twilight Zone, and if it wasn't for the fact that his head felt like someone was pounding on it with a hammer he would've thought he was dreaming.

"Um… well… I _was_… I was actually _very_ familiar with her, you know how that is," he stammered. "But I can't say that I have been in the last several months. You see, she kinda up and disappeared, so—"

"I see," the doctor interrupted. "We're you aware of her pregnancy, Mr Stark?"

Tony froze, a loud gasp tearing from his throat as the phone dropped from his hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor as a wave of nausea washed over him.

"Sir?" the doctor's voice called from the fallen phone, demanding and urgent. "Sir, are you there?"

Reaching for the phone, Tony brought it to his ear with a shaking hand, making a futile attempt to swallow down the knot in his throat the size of a marble.

"What the damn hell are you talking about?" he choked out.

"All right, I'll take that to mean that you were not aware," said Dr Goldman. "Ms Williams released us to contact you, sir, which is why I'm calling. There was a baby born early this morning, sir, a baby boy, and he's…"

The doctor continued to speak, but Tony heard nothing more as his still-drunken mind attempted to wrap itself around the fact—no, more like rumour, he couldn't quite accept it as fact just yet—that Regina had been pregnant, and with _his _child, and had chosen to hide it from him along with everything else she had done.

_Don't know why I would've expected anything else, _he thought. _Not like she was ever truly honest with me._

"Sir?" said Dr Goldman after a short period of silence. "Sir—"

"_What_ the goddamn _hell_ is going on here?" Tony rasped. "Is this some kind of sick joke? Because if it is, that's really fucking _low,_ and—"

"I assure you, sir, this is not a joke," Dr Goldman said firmly. "Ms Williams gave birth to a baby boy approximately three hours ago, and we—"

"Is—is she there?" Tony asked as his heart started to thud. "Can I talk to her?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid she left the hospital AMA shortly after the baby's birth. But she did name you as the father, which is why I'm calling."

"Holy shit," Tony breathed. "And you're absolutely sure that you're not just shitting me here, 'cause this isn't the first time that people have tried to hoodwink me, so…"

"I'm absolutely sure," replied the doctor. "I would have no reason to… hoodwink you, sir. The baby—"

"You said its a boy?" asked Tony.

"Yes, sir, he's a boy. He was born at thirty-one weeks, sir, and he's—"

"What's he look like? Does he look at all like me?"

"Sir, if you'll allow me to explain," Dr Goldman said. "The baby is not doing well. He was born at an estimated thirty-one weeks, which is over two months premature, so his lungs are not completely developed. We have him on an oscillating ventilator and drugs to help support his blood pressure, so we're doing all that we can to help him, but—"

"What?" Tony cut in. He planted his palm on the floor, grimacing as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "What're you saying, that he's gonna—that the baby's gonna—?"

"The baby is very sick, Mr Stark," the doctor said with a sigh. "At this point we're not yet sure if he'll make it, so if you would like to see him I would suggest that you come down here as soon as possible."

Tony's head tipped back against the couch as his fingers rubbed at his temples. His head was still throbbing with every beat of his heart, and his body ached like he had just gone ten rounds with the newest heavyweight champion.

Regina, no _Mary_, had been pregnant. She had been pregnant when she left him and she'd never even told him and now—now she was gone again and there was a baby but the baby was sick and—

_What the hell am I supposed to do now?_

"Mr Stark? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," he finally said. "I'll… um… be there sometime… soon. I'm… not really in a condition to drive at the moment, so… "

"Very well," said Dr Goldman. "Just ask for me at the NICU information desk when you arrive. We'll run a DNA test to be certain and then go from there."

The doctor clicked off then, but Tony remained sitting there, still holding the phone to his ear for another full minute before he felt able to move again, his mind swirling with this quite literally earth-shattering news.

_Regina was pregnant… she was pregnant with my baby… _

_I have a son… _

_Holy shit! I have a son!_

Inhaling a shaky breath, Tony quickly dialed Obie's number, raking a hand through his mussed-up hair as he waited for him to answer. He knew Obie would be upset, especially if he was already asleep again, but he also knew figured Rhodey was likely avoiding his calls so—

"Tony?" Obie grumbled into the phone, his gravelly voice thick with sleep.

"Obie, you gotta listen to me—"

"Tony, what the goddamn hell is wrong with you? Don't you know what time it is?"

"Yeah. Well, no actually, not really, but you gotta help me. I need to get to—"

"You need to get to what, Tony?" Obie snapped. "What, do you need another drink? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you got plenty of the good stuff there at the house, so—"

"Goddamnit, Obie, just shut and listen to me, will ya?" Tony huffed, trying to push himself up to his feet. "I just got a call from some doctor at Mount Sinai saying that Regina had a baby, and—"

He was cut off by Obie's laughter, that loathsome guffaw that he always made whenever he thought someone was being an idiot.

"A baby? And you actually believed him? Oh, Tony, come on! How many times have those gold-digging girls come at you with these trumped-up pregnancy stories? I mean, I can count at least three or four in the last couple years, and they've all turned out to be a load of shit!"

"Yeah, I know, Obie, but this was a doctor, not a lawyer, and he said the baby was there and that he was sick, and—"

"Oh, so now you're gonna go down to the hospital reeking of Scotch—and from goddamn _Jersey_ of all places—and have some quack tell you that you've fathered some brat from the Bronx or something? I mean, Jesus, Tony! You need to grow up and get a clue!"

Burning not tears stung Tony's dry eyes, and he swallowed hard, shuddering in disgust.

"So I take it you're not gonna drive me down to the hospital?" he asked, so meekly that shame washed over him like a wave.

"What? No!" Obie stated. "No way in hell! Now, get off the phone so I can get some goddamn sleep!"

Tony's upper lip curled into a sneer as he shook his head. _What the hell was I thinking?_

"All right," he said, with as much force as he could muster. "Then I guess I'll just have to call a taxi. See ya, Obie."

"Yeah, right," Obie said with a chuckle. "Tony Stark in a taxi, now that'd be a sight for the tabloids. Go to bed, Tony. And don't forget about our meeting in the morning."

Clicking off, Tony gripped the arm of the couch, trying to keep his balance as he slowly got to his feet. He stayed still for several seconds, making sure that he wasn't going to just tip over again before stumbling towards his bedroom and into the shower, cursing when he realised he was still wearing his clothes from the nightclub as the freezing cold water hit him square in the face.

A few minutes later, somewhat cleaned up and redressed, Tony shuffled back to the kitchen and pulled up the number of the exclusive taxi company that catered to the wealthy and famous, asking them to make a pass through the drive-thru at Burger King before they picked him up so he could at least make the ride to the hospital without having to puke in the backseat of the car.

But by the time the car dropped him off at the hospital entrance, Tony was having some major second thoughts. What if Obie was right and this was all some sick joke someone was trying to play on him? After what had happened at the club he didn't really need any more help feeling like a goddamn fool.

But then again, what if it _wasn't?_

His head down, Tony stepped inside the hospital, past the NYPD officers stationed near the doors and down the hall to the bank of elevators, searching the directory for the neonatal unit. He was wearing the most nondescript clothes he could find, along with a pair of sunglasses and a baseball hat, hoping to avoid being recognised just in case.

"Can I help you, sir?" a blonde-haired woman asked as Tony slowly approached the information desk. The sheer kindness in her voice startled Tony such that he nearly knocked the glasses off his face as he fidgeted uncomfortably. He honestly couldn't remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that, like they simply wanted to help him, without expecting anything in return.

"Yeah," he squeaked, quickly clearing his throat. "Yeah, um… I'm looking for a Dr Goldman?"

The secretary nodded as she picked up a phone receiver, her pretty eyes radiating sympathy. "Yes, sir, I'll let him know that you're here."

His heart thudding, Tony leaned against the counter as he waited, twisting his hands in front of him, his mouth going dry as a tall and lanky black-haired doctor wearing scrubs and a long, white lab coat exited from a pair of double doors and headed towards him.

"Mr Stark?" the man asked, offering his hand. "I'm Dr Goldman, I spoke with you on the phone."

"Yeah," Tony murmured, clearing his throat. "Um… yeah… so…"

"Why don't you come with me, yeah?" he said with a tired but kind smile as he led Tony into a small office a short distance down the hall. "I'm sure you have a few questions?"

The complete absence of both judgement and awe in the man's eyes relaxed Tony, and he nodded as he took a seat. Tony was used to people either glaring at him or eyeing him up like they wanted to start snacking on him, so this was a refreshing change.

"Yeah, you might say that," he said gingerly. "Um… I guess I'm mostly just a bit confused, so—"

"Believe me, Mr Stark, this isn't the first time I've seen something like this happen, so don't worry about that," said Dr Goldman. He opened the file sitting on his desk, the words Baby Boy Stark written across the top.

"From the information I was able to gather from Ms Williams' attending physician, she had either no or very limited prenatal care and presented here in active labour, such that there was no possibility of reversal. Because of that there wasn't enough time to treat her with the usual steroids used to try and accelerate the lung growth of the baby. The baby was born with APGAR scores of two and four and required immediate resuscitation. I personally intubated him, and he was placed on the oscillating ventilator after we determined that the conventional ventilator wasn't going to be enough for him. He's also currently on three different medication drips to help maintain his blood pressure, as well as antibiotics to help prevent infection. We're monitoring his blood gases every hour and his electrolytes every four hours, as well as blood markers to look for infection."

Dr Goldman paused then, folding his hands as he regarded Tony. "As I said on the phone, Mr Stark, we're doing everything that we can for him, but at this point I can't be certain that he'll survive the night. So if you choose to not go and see him, I will understand."

Tony's brow furrowed in confusion as his still-drunken mind struggled to decipher all the medical jargon the doctor had spouted off as though he'd been simply talking about the weather.

"You don't—you don't think I should even see him?" Tony asked. "Why?"

Sighing, Dr Goldman shook his head. "When they're this sick, sometimes it's just easier to not get attached."

"But—but," Tony stammered, shaking his head. "Then why did you call me?"

"Ms Williams insisted on it, sir," replied Dr Goldman. "In fact, it was the last thing she said before she left the hospital."

A flash of anger shot through Tony, his hands clenching into fists in his lap.

_Before she left. Again._

_It wasn't enough to just abandon me, she had to abandon her own son too?_

"Did… ah… did she say where she was going?" Tony asked, barely getting the words out.

"No, I'm afraid not." Dr Goldman leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the file. "So does that mean you'd like to see the baby? We can offer a paternity test first if you'd like to wait, or—"

"Go ahead and do the test," Tony cut in. He knew Obie would want solid proof if nothing else. "But I'd still—I'd still like to see him… now."

Dr Goldman nodded as he got to his feet. "Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to his pod."

Tony was so shaky he was surprised that his legs were still functional as he followed the doctor out of the office and into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. As soon as they stepped through the doors Tony grimaced, the beeping noises of the various monitors and machines combined with the scent of strong antiseptic and that stale, artificial "hospital" smell assaulting his senses was enough to make him momentarily question his decision.

And the stares coming his way from the other parents keeping watch at their babies' bedsides, their eyes shouting a chorus of, "you're in for it now" weren't helping at all either.

_Obie was right. What the hell am I even doing here? I never wanted to be a father. _

_I'm not ready to be a father._

But all of Tony's negative thoughts evaporated as the doctor slowed to a halt near a small group of incubators, jerking his head towards a nearby sink.

"If you don't mind washing your hands, Mr Stark," he said as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Oh, sure," Tony mumbled. His hands were shaking so badly that he almost managed to squirt soap into his eyes, but once he was finally able to wash and dry them off he turned to see Dr Goldman standing next to one of the clear incubators, inside which lay one of the smallest babies Tony had ever seen.

"Is—is that—?" Tony stammered, even as he knew it had to be him. Aside from the placard hanging on the wall that read Baby Boy Stark, the shock of curly dark brown hair covering the baby's tiny head and the slight olive tint to his skin were both unmistakably Stark characteristics. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned to the side, facing Tony, and his tiny little body was barely the length of Tony's forearm, with the diaper covering his bum smaller than Tony's hand.

He quite literally was the size of a child's doll, and appeared to be just as fragile. But as Tony's bleary eyes managed to focus in on him, it became obvious after only a few seconds that there was a strength hidden deep inside that tiny, frail body that defied all logic, almost as if he was daring people to underestimate him.

There was already something extraordinary about this child, it was almost as though Tony could _feel_ it.

_And why shouldn't there be? _Tony thought, shocked at its intensity. _He's my son._

_Holy shit, I have a son!_

He even had the same long, piano-player fingers as Tony.

And since he was a Stark, that also meant he was a survivor.

"Yes, this is him, Mr Stark," said Dr Goldman. He pointed to the tall, rather noisy machine parked next to the incubator. "And this is the oscillating ventilator. It uses vibrations to deliver oxygen to the baby's lungs, which is why it's so loud. It's what we use when the baby's lungs are too sick to tolerate a conventional ventilator. Right now the baby's blood oxygen level is holding at eighty-four percent, which isn't viable for long-term survivability. If we're not able to get the level above ninety-two percent soon, I'm afraid the outcome will not be a good one."

Tony was so mesmerised by the baby that he'd barely even heard what the doctor said, the words Rhodey had spoken to him right before he'd left earlier suddenly slamming into the forefront of his mind like a freight train.

"_You need something I can't give you, Tony," _Rhodey had said. "_A reason to live."_

And maybe, just maybe, this was the reason he needed.

_This is my son._

_Holy shit, I have a son!_

"Mr Stark?" Tony heard from somewhere behind him. Apparently in his haze he hadn't realised that he was now leaning so close to the incubator that his nose was practically pressing against it.

"Are you all right, Mr Stark?"

Tearing his eyes away from his son—his _son! Holy shit I have a son!—_Tony turned to the doctor, pursing his lips.

"If you save his life, I promise that you will never want for anything ever again," he said. "_Ever_ again."

"Mr Stark, I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," Dr Goldman said with a frown. "This baby won't receive any lesser or better quality care than any other baby in this unit, it doesn't matter who he is."

Tony was so choked up that he could barely speak, but he was finally able to manage anyway. "I know that," he said, his jaw clenched tight. "But I also know that this child absolutely _has_ to live. He _has_ to, so… as long as he does, you will never want for anything ever again, and neither will this hospital unit. And that's not a bribe. It's a promise."

Dr Goldman stared at him for several seconds before nodding once.

"All right. Let me get you a chair."

* * *

And so it began.

After explaining all of the possible complications that could arise from being born so premature, everything from possible bleeding in the brain to eye problems to chronic respiratory issues and cognitive delays, Dr Goldman had a technician take a saliva swab from the inside of Tony's cheek for the paternity test and then left him alone with the baby, returning just before the end of his shift at around seven in the morning.

And Tony hadn't moved. In all that time, about four hours as it were, various nurses had come and gone to do various things but Tony hadn't taken his eyes off the baby—his _son—_for any longer than it took to blink.

And he had survived. Against all of the odds stacked against him, the baby had survived the night.

_That's 'cause he's a Stark, _Tony thought proudly. _And Stark men are made of iron._

"Mr Stark?" Dr Goldman said as he finished his notation in the baby's chart. "I can have you assigned to one of the parent rooms if you'd like. That way you can get some rest?"

"No, thank you," Tony said without looking up. "I don't—I don't wanna leave him."

"All right then," said the doctor. He set down the chart, tweaking a couple of the settings on the baby's ventilator. "You know, you might want to start thinking about what you'd like to name him."

Tony pulled his gaze away from his son for a brief moment to look up at the tall, lanky doctor. "Because he survived the night?"

Dr Goldman shook his head, a tired smile lighting on his lips. "No. Because he's your son, and he needs a name."

Tears of joy and trepidation stung Tony's eyes, and he gulped as he turned back to the baby—his _son._

_Holy shit, I have a son!_

"Yeah. I'll… start thinking about it."

"All right," said the doctor. "Well, he seems to be as steady as a rock now, so let's hope that continues."

"Yeah."

"My next shift is in two days' time, Mr Stark," Dr Goldman added. "In the meantime, any of the other physicians on duty can answer any questions that you might have."

"Yeah. Thank you."

As soon as the doctor walked away Tony leaned closer, his hands splayed across the incubator.

"Hey there, little buddy," he whispered, his heart lurching when the baby's tiny nose twitched at the sound of his voice. "I'm… I'm your daddy, and—and—" He broke off as his eyes filled with tears, sniffing. "I'm not gonna leave here until you can come home with me, so… you just keep on getting better, okay?"

The baby's hand moved then, his tiny fingers gripping the blanket beneath him as his lips started smacking around his breathing tube.

"Yep, you're a Stark, all right," Tony murmured, his lips curling into a slight smile. "Got any ideas on what I should call you?"

Tony chuckled when the baby grimaced, which Tony instantly decided was one of the most adorable things he had ever seen in his life.

"Yeah, that was probably a stupid question," he said as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm sure I can think of something."

* * *

Unfortunately that turned out to be more difficult than Tony had anticipated. After dealing with the inevitable freak-outs from both Obie and Rhodey, not to mention the displeasure of the Stark Industries Board of Directors over his extended absence from the company, four weeks later Tony still hadn't been able to decide on what he considered a good enough name for his son. He had managed to come up with and reject over a dozen possibilities, ranging from old Stark family names to pursuing the top one-hundred lists for the last ten years, but still nothing stuck out to him as worthy enough.

And all the while the baby continued to steadily improve. He had no bleeding in his brain or his eyes, his electrolytes and blood gases were all within normal parameters, and even though his lungs were still a bit touch and go and requiring supplemental oxygen, he was able to be weaned off the ventilator by the time he was three weeks old.

He was still "steady as a rock," as Dr Goldman liked to say.

It wasn't until the baby was six weeks old that it finally hit Tony.

Three nurses were standing around the baby's crib, along with Dr Goldman. Since the baby had been tolerating his small tube feedings very well for the last three days, the time had come to disconnect him from his main central IV line and for Tony to finally be allowed to hold him for the first time. He had been able to touch him before then, running his fingers along the baby's arm and carefully smoothing his hair, but he had never actually been able to hold him until now.

Tony sat rigidly in the uncomfortable chair that had been his home for the last six weeks, his heart thudding against his ribcage as one of the nurses swaddled the baby in a blanket before picking him up and placing him gently in Tony's arms. As soon as Tony took him the baby's huge brown eyes—with the long eyelashes that curled on the ends—locked onto his and stayed there, staring at him as if he was afraid to look away, his tiny little face filling with wonder.

"Hey there, little buddy," Tony managed past the knot in his throat, running his fingertip across his son's round cheek. "How're ya doing?"

"He knows you, Mr Stark, that's why he's so comfortable with you," said the nurse, nodding in approval. "He's seen you here every single day, so he already knows you."

"I hope so," Tony whispered, clearing his throat. _I don't ever want him to not know me._

"Would you like to try feeding him now?" asked the nurse. She held out a small bottle that contained no more than a tablespoon of formula, giving Tony an encouraging smile. "Whatever he doesn't take by mouth we'll put in his feeding tube."

Wordlessly, Tony tucked the baby into the crook of his elbow and took the tiny bottle from the nurse's hand, running the nipple along the baby's lower lip just as she had demonstrated the day before.

"There you go, buddy!" Tony said proudly as the baby latched onto the nipple and started sucking as if he'd been doing it the whole time. "That's my boy!"

"You know, Mr Stark," Dr Goldman said, startling Tony. He hadn't realised the doctor was still there. "He still needs a name."

Tony flinched at the statement, still gazing at his son who hadn't taken his eyes off of Tony for a single second.

And then it just hit him, like a rock.

"_Steady as a rock."_

Growing up with a father who was the son of Italian Jewish immigrants and an Italian Catholic mother, Tony had never considered himself to be a religious man, but that didn't mean that he wasn't familiar with some of the more popular religious teachings and stories. Especially the story of how one of the first apostles of Jesus happened to get his name.

The apostle's name was Peter.

Peter, which meant "rock" or "stone", signifying the rock upon which the Christian messiah would build his church.

And for Tony, who had been on such a complete downward spiral that he was lucky he hadn't wound up dead in a ditch somewhere before he'd received that life-changing phone call over six weeks ago, this baby—this completely unexpected but fiercely loved baby—had suddenly become _his_ rock, upon which Tony would be able to rebuild his life.

"Peter," he said, still gazing into his son's beautiful eyes as he drank from his bottle. "His name is Peter."

"Oh, I like that," said Dr Goldman with an approving nod. "That's a nice, strong name. Did you come up with a middle name as well?"

Tony tilted his head, thinking. He hadn't considered a middle name, having been so consumed with choosing a first name for it to even have crossed his mind. But now that he thought about it, there really wasn't a choice to be made. The Starks had a long-standing tradition of giving their sons family names as middle names. His name Anthony had been one of his father's middle names, and his middle name, Edward, had been the first name of Tony's paternal grandfather.

That being said, there was no way Tony was going to saddle his son with a middle name like Howard. Howard may have been Tony's biological father, but at best he'd never treated Tony as anything other than a nuisance.

No. Tony's true father figure had been Edwin Jarvis, the Starks' beloved butler, who had died not too long after Tony's parents were killed in that horrible car accident. Jarvis was the one who had bandaged Tony's skinned knees and taught him how to ride a bike and attended all of his school science fairs as a child, not Howard.

Howard had always been too busy drinking his Scotch and chasing his goddamn super soldier ghost in the Arctic to have any time for Tony.

And now, Tony couldn't think of a better way to honour Jarvis than having him live on in his son.

"Edwin," Tony said softly, tearing his eyes away from Peter to glance up at the doctor. "His name is Peter Edwin Stark."

Dr Goldman smiled. "I like that, Mr Stark." Then he nodded at the nurse who proceeded to pull down the placard above Peter's crib and replace the words, "Baby Boy Stark," with his new name.

Peter Edwin Stark.

At that moment Peter let out a sneeze, spitting out the bottle nipple in the process and causing a little trail of formula to trickle out of his mouth and onto his adorable chin. And then his huge brown eyes focused in on Tony's face, and he proceeded to curl his tiny lips into a smile. His very first smile.

And Tony's heart swelled nearly to the point of bursting as he smiled back.

"Well," said Dr Goldman. "I think he likes it, Mr Stark."

Too choked up to speak, Tony could only nod as he pressed his lips to his son's tiny forehead, sputtering in laughter when Peter sneezed again.

"You like that, little Petey?" he whispered. "You like your new name?"

He drew back his head to look at Peter, his face nearly splitting in two when Peter gave him another smile.

"Peter Edwin Stark," Tony said proudly. "It's nice to meet you."

* * *

_**I can't wait to see what you think! Please don't hesitate to leave me a review! :)**_


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